Our road trip over, we reflect over the last two weeks and where it fits in the scheme of things. For one thing, it satisfied some overdue promises, none of which should have been delayed that long.
Our three destinations involved about 3/4 family and 1/4 friends. That seems to be about right. Some relatives we had seen within the last 6 months. Others not for 30 years or more. Taken all together, it was a time for grounding, a reminder of where we came from, who we really are, and what we are about. But trying to write about all that might be as tedious as being exposed to twenty-nine consecutive episodes of Dr. Phil or a first time reading of Joyce's Ulysses. I'll save it for my post-missionary period. But there were things and encounters on our Southern Swing that moved us deeply.
Aside from the discovery of the old house on Pensacola beach one of the most surprising places was Houston, TX. We had successfully avoided being anywhere near Texas until this trip to see my brother and sister-in-law. Houston is beautiful and, by the end of the stay, converted us. Texas is maybe ok after all and as long as you don 't have to drive to work.
We stopped at the Vicksburg battlefield where one of my great-grandfathers, George Clarke, had fought and surrendered. He was undeterred and re-enlisted. Two hours east from the battlefield is the home of George Clarke, Decatur, Mississippi. Decatur is not exactly Houston. My mother was born there, one of 10 children. (Her mother was the daughter of George Clarke.) Nine of ten had children their own, resulting in my having a lot of cousins. (see photo for 6 of us.) I first came here when I was 4 or 5 years old. Not a lot has changed since. The Clarke-Venable Baptist Church (yes, the same Clarke) survives and grows. Many of my relatives lived on or near the same road. Many still do after careers that took them from a massive aircraft carrier in the Persian Gulf to oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico (not the one you think). Though I had not been there for 30 years, it still felt like home. What you do or did matters less than who you are, a descendent of a long line of Smiths and Clarkes. The ancestors are buried close buy. Much of who am is derived from deep roots in this remote and beautiful place. While I probably will never live here, it is still home.
During our brief visit with Cheri's brother Bruce in northwest Mississippi, we drove to two nearby locations that speak volumes about who we are as Americans. About 20 miles east from Bruce's residence is the small town of Oxford, MS, home of Ole Miss. Once a bastion of white privilege, today one sees students from around the globe meshing unnoticed into the fabric of the community. About a mile from the campus, set far back from a quiet street is Rowan House, home to William Faulkner. The residence is a portrait one of the great literary forces of the 20th century. A Nobel Laureate, Faulkner's palate was a segregated south. In his novels and short stories, he used the rural landscape and its people to teach us about the nature of man, worts and all.
Next was Memphis, a short drive to the north. We found Beale Street by following the sound of blues weeping out of the clubs that line the street. But the place that spoke to our souls and displayed the heartbreak of a generation - was the National Civil Rights Museum.
The museum building wraps around the Lorraine Motel, scene of the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. But is contents was much broader.
* The first exhibit is about discrimination . . . .incurred by Hispanics, Poles, American Indians, Chinese, Japanese, women, immigrants and people of color. Black discrimination was only part of the story.
* The faces of African-American visitors under 50 were compelling - their eyes widened in long stares at pictures and film of white men brutalizing black men. Groups arrived in matching teeshirts There were church groups, and family reunions centered around the museum.
* The walk through the exhibits ends on the second floor and looks outside and over the balcony of the motel. Two rooms have been reconstructed to show just how they looked that terrible night in 1968.
* The museum is not about King, but about anyone who has suffered the sting of discrimination, including those who literally gave their lives to right a wrong deeply ingrained in American society. As well, there was a large exhibit about Ghandi and the principal of non-violence, and, in a nod to the international problem of discrimination, a tribute to Helen Suzman who, for 13 years, was the lone white parliamentarian to oppose apartheid in South Africa. It left us humble and acutely aware that racial discrimination is poisonous and not confined to any one race.
It was a good plan to spend about 2 weeks on the road. We found treasure in the South - monuments to soldiers who died on American soil, the resilient strength of our family, the lasting love of friends and landmarks that remind us of the past but also affirm how we as people can make this a better place, even if one person at a time.
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